Cleanliness
by Stained Blue
Summary: Just a good bit of shower smut; look for the companion piece "...Second to Godliness"


Title: Cleanliness…  
Pairing: Stottlemeyer/Monk  
Note: I seriously don't own, but man I wish I did. Told from Stottlemeyer's POV, look for the companion piece "…Second to Godliness"

It's early, I get that, but it doesn't stop me from banging on Monk's door at 5 in the morning. Granted, it takes a little more than a few moments to actually rouse Monk, but eventually, the great detective does pull open his door.

I want to be mad at him for making me wait; I really, really do. But his normally perfect hair is tousled, well as much as it can be, and there are dark circles under his eyes. That irritation? It instantly becomes worry, but I smother it down, like I do most feelings involving Monk. I clap him on the shoulder and move inside, gently pressing him back into his tidy apartment.

"I have been up all night working this damn case," I growl at him, shaking the manila folder in his general direction. "And I'm getting nowhere. We really need your help on this one Monk; mayor's made it top priority." He tries to take the folder from me, but I pull it out of his reach. "Uh, uh, uh. I know you. Go get ready first, then you can look at the folder."

After a couple seconds of delay, he moves off. I try to distract myself in his apartment, anything to keep from thinking about Adrian Monk neatly removing his clothes and preparing for a shower. But I wind up thinking it anyway, those thoughts setting me on fire in a slow burn. Sighing, I glance at my watch and decide I'll give him 30 minutes to move at his own pace before I badger him to move along. I swear to God, that man takes longer to get ready than most women.

Shaking my head, I prowl around the living room, trying to smother my growing erection. Everywhere, the beautiful face of Trudy smiles down at me. She was a good woman, strong…had to be to be loved by him. Sometimes, I don't know if I'm strong enough to be his friend, and I can't even begin to imagine the stress she must have been under being his wife.

Somehow, I get lost in my own little world, thinking about Monk. I give my head a little shake, glance at my watch, and heave a sigh. "Jesus Christ," I mutter sharply before dropping the folder on the crooked coffee table and marching determinedly through the quiet apartment. I stop at the closed bathroom door and press my fingers against it. Should I knock, I ask myself, but then decide it's best to catch him unawares.

I snatch the handle of the bathroom door, jerk it roughly, and push inside the damp, muggy bathroom. I take in the towel neatly folded on the closed toilet lid, the fogged up mirror, seemingly everything before I notice Monk. Even with the thick planes of wavy glass between us, my breath hitches painfully in my throat and my want chokes me.

He's at the back of the stall, eyes closed tight, and head tilted back slightly. The mild grimace on his face is the only indication that he's uncomfortable, not in favor of the situation.

And before I can really stop myself, I'm taking off my clothes. It just kinda happens. One moment, I'm standing in the doorway, ready to bellow at him to get his ass in gear. The next? My hands are working frantically at the buttons on my shirt and pants while I'm toeing my shoes off. I stop, balanced against the doorframe, with my pants around my ankles. Am I really about to do this, I ask myself. The low ache in my stomach tells me yes, and I move forward.

The shower door slides back quietly, and I step inside the hot, wet stall before too much cold air gets in. In that brief moment before he opens his eyes, I stare at him. He's never been a slight man in build, and even after leaving the force that much hasn't changed. He's sturdy, with straight lines. His chest is smooth, while dark curls have been smoothed straight around his navel. I don't really have time to look lower when he gives a squeak, telling me I've been found out.

"Le—Leland? What….what are you doing?" His hands are coming up, covering as much of his nakedness as he can, turning to the side and curling in on himself slightly. I sigh softly and move toward him, taking hold of one of his wrists and trying to pull him away from himself.

"Adrian. Adrian…ADRIAN." Finally, he stops. One impossibly dark eye opens and stares at me past his bare arm. I can't help myself, really. I reach out and brush my fingertips along his cheekbone. He blinks at me rapidly, so uncertain of himself as he lets me tug him back toward me. He stands there, frozen and unsure, staring at me. And now that I'm here, I'm a little uncertain myself.

Instincts have gotten me this far, and I pray they'll lead me a little more. I take a few steps toward him, which in turn makes him try to back away. Without really thinking, I throw my arms around him, tugging him back toward me, up against me really. He makes this hollow sound in his throat, his eyes squinting shut as he tries to breathe, tries to completely ignore my interested body pressed flush against his not-completely uninterested one.

Slowly, I slip my arms further down his body, locking my fingers together in the small of his back, ensuring he can't back away from me. Our hips are snug together, my erection pressing against his, and when he shifts in my grip I have to squint my eyes shut to keep from pressing him into the wall and doing anything, everything to him. That harsh raspy breathing? It's me. Adrian is silent, still in my grip, like shock has emptied him. I tug him backward, pulling him under the lukewarm spray from the showerhead and lean forward.

I tug him closer, eliminating pretty much any space between us, and brush my lips slowly along his neck. This sound gets trapped in his throat, a mix between a moan and a groan. Inwardly smirking, I continue to press soft kisses against his throat and neck. How many times have I dreamed of tearing the top buttons, or all of them, free from their slots on his shirts? I can't get enough of the soft skin of his throat, nuzzling, kissing, nipping at that skin.

After a long moment, his arms come around my neck, looped loosely. Despite the stony stillness, he's certainly willing enough, if one is to go by his body's reaction. I rub against him slightly, just a test to see how he'll respond. I pull back and stare at him, notice the easy set of his mouth, the slow melody of his breathing. He looks almost content, but I'm burning up on the inside. I need him, and my will is running low.

My mouth crashes against his, my hips arching into his. A soft, muffled moan breaks through the fuzz surrounding my mind. I hold him against the shower wall, furiously pressing, shifting, grinding against him. I can feel him shaking. His nails dig into my shoulders, leaving perfect little biting indentations in my skin. His fingers stroke along the nape of my neck, playing with my hair, and fuck if that doesn't drive me crazy. I growl against his mouth, forcing his mouth open with a neat little bite to that full bottom lip. A soft sigh of a moan chokes off against my lips, and I force my tongue inside his mouth.

Even though he's only been awake for a little over an hour, he tastes like mint. I'm not surprised; I never expected him to taste any different. My hands unlock from his back, one sliding up to cup his dark head, the only to grip at his hip. There's a fever in me, burning me from the inside out. Nothing's ever been like this before. The Adrian moves against me, and my mind shatters.

His hips press back against mine, his hard, wet length rubbing against mine. I try to slow myself, stop before it all breaks, but I can't. It's like tripping down a hill, kissing Adrian, touching him…now that I've started, I couldn't stop if I wanted to. I curl my fingertips into his warm, dark curls, holding his head at the right angle for me to deepen the kiss. My tongue maps every inch of his mouth before sliding against his own tongue, a mockery of what our hips are doing.

There's a keening moan trapped in his throat, but I can feel it in the kiss, his chest if jumping against mine as he struggles for breath. He starts to shake his head in the kiss, and I try so hard to keep him occupied without actually touching him. But Christ, do I ever want to touch him. He breaks the kiss from me, pulling back, and the soft keen breaks free. My mouth is on his throat, nipping at the spots I know will be hidden by the collar, my lips pulling at his tender skin. Soon enough, the suction from my mouth leaves him breathless, his head thumping back against the wall, even though he's still muttering "no" softly.

I may need this release, but he needs it more. I know this, I'm not stupid. He's clinging to me like he's afraid of drowning, his perfect nails digging into my skin. His hips are restless against mine, and he's rubbing himself against me in a mild abandon. I know his mind and body are operating on two different planes. And then my hand is slipping from his hip, reaching between us.

He's hot in my hand, his skin silky, and I would be totally lost if I didn't do this myself. I trap our erections together in my grip, the feel of his skin held so tightly against mine sends a tremor up my spine. It doesn't take me long to figure out a pattern of motion that leaves him breathless, needing me, wanting me. And it's not like I'm doing much better.

The motion of my hand should be enough, but I keep arching, grinding against him. His hips are spasming against my hand, pressing up into my grip. His hands slide down to rest on my upper back as he clings to me. His face buries in the crook of my neck, and I can feel the low keen against my throat. My vocal chords are working, struggling to make some sort of comforting noise, my mouth pressed close to his ear. I can nearly feel the tear of my skin as his nails dig in deeper, his body freezes, and the keen becomes a deep, almost plaintive moan.

I don't stop the motion of my hand, milking the orgasm from the very pit of his core and pressuring me closer to edge. I press closer to him, finally abandoning the use of my hand, and I just grind and thrust against him until I find that bliss too. The orgasm is so powerful I swear my fucking heart stops. I'm clinging to Adrian, trembling as the aftershocks pulse through me. It's like being 12 again. I lean against him, holding him to me, feeling him breathe.

About this time, I notice just how cold the water is coursing over us. Finally, I step back, relinquishing my hold on him to let the cold water clean away the mess we've managed to make. I look at him; watch his eyes with those incredibly long lashes flutter open. That dark, brilliant gaze pins me, twists something in my chest. After a heartbeat, he gives me cautious half-smile, still so uncertain of himself. I realize I'm dripping on his bathmat, and even though that's what it's for, I feel dirty. "Oh Christ, sorry Adrian," I mutter, snatching a towel off the rack and swiping it over my body quickly.

He turns the water off and steps onto the now soaked bathmat. There's water dripping from his hair into his face and without really thinking, I swipe my towel lightly over his face. He doesn't make any fuss as I pick his dry towel up and coast it over his body. All this seems so…dreamlike. And I'm not so sure it really happened, but I like the dream. It's one I've have before, so I'm well versed in it.

Next, we'll move to the bedroom, I think smirking, until I catch sight of my watch face. "Shit," I grumble before stumbling to the doorway, struggling with my clothes. "C'mon Adrian, we gotta go. We're already like an hour late." And granted he does seem to move a little faster. In less than an hour thirty, we're in the car and driving toward the crime scene. And that's when the most curious thing happens, more curious than the quick rut in the shower, or the lack of nonsense about germs or any of it.

Adrian Monk places his quivering fingers against the back of my hand, then slides his fingers between mine, locking our hands together. And nothing else matters in my world.


End file.
